


A tear in the fabric of space and time

by opposablethumbs



Series: The fabric of time and space [2]
Category: Doctor Strange - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cloak POV, Cloak of Levitation (Marvel), Crack Treated Seriously, I'm still sad Stephystark didn't catch on, IronStrange, M/M, Release the Cracken, Sorry Not Sorry, non-sexual tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 04:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9106339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opposablethumbs/pseuds/opposablethumbs
Summary: “I'm not stroking your ego,” Tony chortled, poking Stephen playfully in the side and then dusting over the dip of his waist.Stephen shivered and then stilled Tony’s hand with his own. “Why not?” he asked, his voice a rumbling baritone. “I'll stroke yours if you stroke mine.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Разрыв в пространственно-временном континууме](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10213901) by [Savarna_Scaramouche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savarna_Scaramouche/pseuds/Savarna_Scaramouche)



> You are all to blame for this, but none more so than [nursedarry](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry/). Her punishement was, and continues to be, to beta my work.
> 
> (Darry, you are an angel and thank you for your encouragement.)
> 
> If you're wondering what verse this is set in: all of them.

“It’s not a date,” Stephen said, pacing back and forth in front of his bedroom mirror. “It’s just two people of above-average attractiveness and intelligence having a meeting. Over lunch. For the third time in a month.”

I appreciated him trying to reassure me, but it wasn’t working. Draping myself limply against the back of his door, I watched the pacing continue. Suddenly he stopped and flung open his closet, moaning quietly into the depths.

“Why don’t I own any normal clothes?”

I tried not to take his words as a personal affront. Robes, sashes, _cloaks_. They’re all essential to a sorcerer’s mystical presence and ability to perform, assisting in channelling the flow of magic. Sometimes I despair at the restrictive fashions of today’s youth: no one saved the world wearing spandex in my day.

Stephen sighed as he rummaged inside the closet, pulling out a smart tunic in black satin. He pursed his lips as he considered it and then tossed it on the bed. “Too porn star.”

I held back a sigh. We were going to be here a while.

****

It took most of the contents of the Wardrobe of Watoomb for Stephen to finally reach a decision: dark cashmere pants and a silk shirt with closed cuffs and a raised neck.

Examining the outfit front and back in the mirror, he nodded to himself. “It'll do,” he said.

I pushed myself away from the wood and floated to where he stood, taking him in more closely. Despite his critical assessment, I thought he looked rather fetching. If anything, he was a little over-dressed for a simple luncheon appointment. His clothes fit him snugly, tailored to his form in certain areas that did not escape my attention, nor did I expect they would escape certain other people’s eyes. Not that I was going to mention that.

Even though I was within inches of Stephen, he barely registered my presence. I was touched, as I often had been in the past, by how unguarded he was around me. Sometimes he would even forget I was in the room with him. Believing it to be one of those times, I moved closer and rested a buckle on his back. When he still failed to react, I slipped more fully around his shoulders.

That got his attention. “Get off,” he said, shrugging me away.

Realising I must have surprised him; I tried again, more slowly.

“I’m serious,” Stephen scowled, tugging at my hem and sending me fluttering on top of the heap of rejected clothing. “You’re not invited.”

I bridled slightly at his bluntness, but confess I wasn’t entirely surprised. Ever since that first meeting with Tony, it was clear Stephen couldn't be trusted to act rationally around him. I had spent long enough in the company of humans - especially those dedicated enough to master the magical arts - to know that once they set their minds to something they did it. And in this case, that ‘it’ appeared to include Tony.

Resignedly, I drifted over to the bedside table and eased open its small drawer. One of the lessons I learned from my own youth was that sometimes it was necessary just to get such things out of one’s system. But that didn’t mean I could stand by and not have him benefit from my greater wisdom and experience in these matters. I collected the contents of the dresser, a short stack of pamphlets, and returned to his side.

He crooked his eyebrow curiously at me. “What’re these?” he asked, plucking one of the leaflets from my grasp and turning it over in his hands. His expression passed through several sequences of scowls and smirks before he spoke again. “ _The Truth About Herpes?_ ”

Taking the remaining leaflets from me, he read each title in turn. “ _Chlamydia and Pals... We Need to Talk About Syphilis...”_ His eyes widened with each one. The final one in particular appeared to interest him. _“To Baby or Not to Baby, That is the Question.”_

Even without the tears in his eyes and the faint smile on his lips, I could tell he was touched by the depth of my concern. “This is...too much,” he said, voice cracking with emotion. “Where did you even get these?”

Bashfully, I wafted a hem at his laptop.

“The Internet,” he replied. “I should’ve guessed.”

By casting his eyes in that direction, his attention fell upon the clock on the mantelpiece. I followed his gaze. Ten to one.

“Oh _hell_ ,” he said, “I’m going to be late. I’ll have to use a portal.” From within the depths of the Wardrobe of Watoomb, he pulled out a long, royal blue waistcoat in fine velvet, slipping it on and buttoning it so it pinched in at his narrow waist.

“You...stay here,” he ordered, levelling two fingers at me. “And keep off the computer. The Vishanti-only knows what you’ve done to my browsing history.”

He turned his fingers into the air before him and inscribed a circle, opening a swirling transportational rift in the middle of the room. Through its foci I saw a flash of the city, and the front window of a small but expensive-looking bistro. Stephen stepped through the portal, and I watched him emerge on the other side and pick his way across the street. He headed straight for Tony, who smiled at him and lifted a hand in greeting.

Without really meaning to, I took a peek at Tony’s aura. The red that had been there before remained evident, but it was tinged with gold at its fringes. This golden halo seemed to reach out for Stephen or, I realised with growing horror, perhaps to _siphon_ from him. Indeed, it seemed to glow more brightly the closer they got. Before I could study this worrying development more, however, Stephen glanced over his shoulder, frowned and flicked his wrist in my direction. The portal snapped closed.

Tony Stark. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. His reputation preceded itself, not least on the aforementioned internet. But what if he was _more_ than he seemed? I had encountered people - creatures - who fed off the energies of others before. Psychic leeches, astral parasites; even...

Spirit vampires. That would fit. Spirit vampires were attracted to sources of power and sought to influence them; to feed on their energy. Tony had first come to see Stephen about increasing the energy he drew across dimensions. I’d since learned that Tony had even had a small scale Seal of Armaan embedded in his chest for a time. A sorcerer supreme would make a tasty snack for such a being.

With Stephen in potential danger, it was my duty - as his friend, companion and whatever else - to protect him. There was only one thing I could do.

I flipped open the laptop and typed ‘Tony Stark home address New York’ into the search engine.

****

Hailing a cab in New York City was harder than the movies made it seem. One driver stopped just long enough to cross himself at me and then accelerate away with a screech. At last, though, a nice man who introduced himself as Dopinder accepted my fare. Helpfully, he had tourist map taped to the glass separating us, which allowed me to point to my desired destination. As he threaded the cab through the busy Manhattan streets, Dopinder chatted amiably about the merits of driving for the city over a private company, his soon-to-be-wife Gita, and how he’d paid for their wedding by selling items other passengers had left in the vehicle. I was not one to judge and, to his credit, Dopinder didn’t seem terribly put out when I was unable to pay the twelve dollars seventy he requested. Cloaks simply aren’t made for carrying wallets, or whatever a ‘crisp high five’ is.

After waving the friendly driver off, I turned my attention to my destination: Stark Tower. Tony’s skyscraper thrust its way into the sky, looming above all the other buildings in the vicinity in a way that left little doubt that its owner was compensating for _something_. I’d spent much of my way there trying to decide how to get inside. Unexpectedly, however, there appeared to be a freely rotating door at the base of the tower. I’d expected somewhat more of a challenge. I couldn’t just...let myself in, could I?

 _Could_ I?

Of course not. Strolling inside uninvited would’ve been rude. And, for all I knew, the apparently welcoming interior was a ruse designed to deceive the unwary. No, my objective required subtlety and stealth. Thankfully, in addition to levitation, my creator had imbued me with several other powers. My ability to change colour in the presence of sour milk was always a little superfluous, but a more useful skill was the power of invisibility. Or rather it _had_ been useful, until some young whippersnapper of cloak registered a trademark. After that, I’d had to content myself with floating and the milk thing. But for Stephen, I was prepared to risk a bit of copyright infringement.

Shimmying my powers in order, I made myself transparent. Well, that’s not quite true. What I in fact did was to entangle the quanta of my being with those of the surrounding environment. Invisibility was simply illusionary camouflage. My physical form remained unchanged but, as far as the universe and any spectators were concerned, I was now oxygen molecules; a mote of carbon; the photons waving in a shaft of light. Safe in my disguise, I crossed the street at my leisure and allowed the door to sweep me inside.

The building’s exterior had nothing on the foyer I found myself in. Waterfalls the height of a house flowed from suspended crystalline channels, making it look like they cascaded magically from the sky. There was no direct source of light once you moved past the door, but the interior was bright as midday; the marble walls themselves seeming to glow. Even lush trees and bright flowers flourished as though sunlight filled the space.

In my time, I have seen many worldly and otherworldly sanctums, but I have to confess: I was impressed by whoever Tony Stark’s interior decorator was. However, it was more than that. Examining the energies of the building, I realised quite what. Lines of elemental force intersected the foyer; two of air, one each of fire, earth and water. For someone who proclaimed not to believe in mystic forces, Tony had certainly built his home on prime magical real-estate. Power fairly pulsed through the superstructure, coalescing some way skyward. _His lair_ , I presumed.

But how to get up there? While the ceiling of the foyer was far above, it certainly wasn’t as high as I needed to go. I cast about, looking for some way to get beyond my immediate surroundings. As I did, a gentle ping sounded at the back of the foyer. I whirled towards the sound, forgetting for an instant that I was invisible. However the white-haired and moustachioed janitor that emerged from what I realised had to be an elevator passed me by without even a glance. I hurried over to it, slipping inside before the doors could close.

It was...empty. And by that I mean there were no buttons or panels or inlays of any kind. It was simply a mirrored box, the glass spotless and reflecting the nothingness within. And that was when the doors _did_ shut behind me, sealing me in.

I panicked, bouncing from wall to wall to try and find some weakness in my mirrored cage. Could Tony have guessed that I would see through him and have laid a trap for me? In my agitation, one of my folds must have brushed against some unseen trigger, however, because out of nowhere popped an ethereal display panel. I leapt back, startled, but the display remained, doing nothing more malevolent than showing a list of floors in floating, blue letters.

Slightly sheepish and grateful there was no one around to have witnessed my premature distress, I examined the display. The first thirty floors appeared to be those of a standard office block: work spaces, meeting rooms; even a ‘yoga studio’ (whatever that was). After that came level upon level of research facilities dedicated to the primitive sciences, with a whole bank of floors allocated as ‘reactor levels’ at its apex. Above that, the display flashed ‘private’, with strange symbols demarking the floors instead of numbers. At the very top I saw the symbol Tony had first come to see Stephen about: the Seal of Armaan.

As the Immortal Ignacious would have said: bingo.

I tried to interact with the radiant display, pressing a finger of fabric into the ‘private’ space. Nothing happened. Of course not. I was still maintaining the illusion of invisibility. I considered whether I dared risk dropping the spell for long enough to trigger the lift’s optical interface.

_“It wouldn't do you much good even if you did. Access to those floors is biometrically locked.”_

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. That is to say, whoever spoke was at least as invisible as I was. And while the unseen speaker sounded pleasant enough, their tone lilting and feminine, I still startled.

“She can see me,” I thought.

“Oh yes,” the voice replied. “Although a cloaked cloak isn't something you set your sensors on every day, even in this madhouse.”

“You can _understand_ me?” I asked incredulously. In the fifteen hundred something-ish years since my creation, I have never found another being who could hear me as though I spoke in words. Not Mighty Agamotto, not Ishall the Helpful; not even my Stephen. They could interpret my actions, but my thoughts - my voice - went unheard.

“Sure,” the woman said genially. “As soon as I realised the fluctuations in the EM field you produce approximated a language, I could translate everything you thought.”

“And how long did that take?” I asked, forgetting my fear for a moment.

The woman sounded vaguely apologetic. “About .33 of a second,” she replied. Her voice brightened. “I'm Friday, by the way.”

“Um, hello Friday,” I said hesitantly. “If you don't mind me asking, where are you?”

“Everywhere and nowhere,” Friday replied, echoing my earlier thoughts. “I'm Tony Stark's personal AI. I run the day-to-day business of Stark Industries; balance his social, professional and avenging duties; and occasionally remind him to change his pants.”

That description didn't fit with any spirit vampire I had ever encountered. In my experience, they would normally fluctuate between megalomania and being paranoid recluses...

“He's getting better with that,” Friday interjected. “But what's a spirit vampire?”

It seemed there were some drawbacks to being understood. “Never mind,” I thought hurriedly, a little embarrassed by how my genuine concern for Stephen _might_ have made me jump to the wrong conclusion. “So, what do you intend to do now, Friday? Will you alert the authorities?”

“Why? Are you planning on breaking any laws?”

Her flippancy took me aback. “Well, I'm a strange entity attempting to access your tower.”

“Exactly,” she replied.

“Pardon me?” I asked.

“You're one of Doctor Strange’s magic thingamajigs, aren’t you? His cloak of levitation, if I'm not mistaken.”

“That's... That's right,” I stammered.

“Then nice to meet you,” she said. “Uh oh.”

The last part drew my attention. “Uh oh?” I asked.

“Yes. Uh oh,” she replied. “Tony and Stephen are back. And they're heading straight for...” She didn't get any further as the door sprang open with a ding and the two men stepped inside. They were mid-conversation, Tony currently speaking, and I had to press myself against the rear of the lift so neither would brush against me.

“No really, she threw up right there in her bedroom,” Tony said, laughing lightly.

“Because of your facial hair?” Stephen replied incredulously.

Tony shrugged. “Apparently keratin is their equivalent of genital warts. You live and you learn.”

Stephen’s nose wrinkled but he fingered his own beard thoughtfully. “So you go back to a lot of alien princess’s palaces, then?” he asked.

A knowing smile crept on to Tony's lips. I followed Stephen's eyes as they dropped to it and lingered there.

“Do you?” Tony asked, and his voice had that low purr to it that I'd heard at our first meeting.

Stephen licked his own lips, although I'm not sure the gesture was conscious. “You're not a princess,” he observed, with a barely perceptible a tremble.

Tony's smile widened. “No, but I do have a tower,” he replied. “Want to come up and check it for dragons?”

It seemed like a perfectly innocuous request to make of the Sorcerer Supreme to me, but apparently Stephen took it as a different kind of invitation than I did. Abruptly, he surged from his side of the elevator, crowding Tony back against the glass and making me curl in on myself even further to avoid detection. As fast as the movement began, however, it stopped. Stephen hesitated a bare pace from Tony. That earned him another wry smirk which seemed to be the final encouragement he needed. He closed the inches between them.

The seconds passed, and with each one the air in the elevator grew more humid as their mouths moved against one another’s, making my fibres frizz. Damp breaths and urgent panting punctuated this peculiar dance of tongues and lips. Stephen’s fingers were curled into the pliant cotton of Tony’s shirt, fingers dipping between the buttons at his breast. As skin met skin, Tony jerked back, a startled look on his face. Stephen frowned at him, more questioning than annoyance. Tony’s answer, if that’s indeed what it was, was to take Stephen’s other hand in his, linking their digits together. Stephen attempted to pull back - I knew from experience that while he had accepted his transition from surgeon to sorcerer, he was still a little self-conscious about his injuries - but Tony’s grip tightened and he guided their joined palms up over his head to press against the mirrored wall.

They kissed again, more slowly this time, and I took the opportunity to examine their shared energies. Anyone less adept at deciphering auras might have seen only the wreathing and writhing scarlet desire between them. But beyond that was a yellow glow of uncertainty; nervousness perhaps. Stephen’s was more evident than Tony’s, but I got the impression that Tony’s went deeper. At last they broke apart again, Tony’s head bowing forward to rest against Stephen’s collar. A huffing laugh shook his shoulders.

“I was starting to think I’d got the wrong end of the wand with you,” he said, voice muffled by the velvet of Stephen’s waistcoat.

“Me?” Stephen said, stepping away enough to cast an imperious look at the pinched wrinkles around Tony’s eyes. “You’re the one constantly associated with some starlet or other.”

Tony shrugged. “A guy who can turn my head is the exception rather than the rule.”

A rare and rueful smile tugged at Stephen’s lips. “Does that mean I'm exceptional?” he asked.

Tony burst into fresh laughter. “I'm not stroking your ego,” he chortled, poking Stephen playfully in the side and then dusting over the dip of his waist.

Stephen shivered and then stilled Tony’s hand with his own. “Why not?” he asked, his voice a rumbling baritone. “I'll stroke yours if you stroke mine.”

Tony blinked and pink rose up his neck and flushed his cheeks in a way that I had to admit was quite attractive. “I can't believe you said that with a straight face,” he chided gently.

“Three years of med school will do that for you,” shrugged Stephen.

“Three years?”

“I’m a quick study.”

There was a hint of a leer in Tony’s reply. “Some might say not quick enough. Friday, penthouse if you would.”

“Sure thing, boss,” my new friend replied, although I noted that she sounded a little more flustered than when we had spoken a few minutes ago. The lift swept into motion, the smooth acceleration belying the rapid flash of floors, and in seconds we were at the top of the tower. The doors opened straight on to a bright and open space, tastefully appointed.

“Let me give you the tour,” Tony said, gesturing for Stephen to take the lead and then tailing him out into the suite.

I fretted for a moment, not sure whether to follow them. Part of me wondered if I was being just a teensy bit over-protective of Stephen. He was, after all, a grown man and master of the mystic arts. And, as loath as I was to admit it, there were perhaps some things a man such as Tony could offer that I couldn’t. Obviously, that didn’t include fighting back the hoary hosts of Hoggoth or keeping him dry in a downpour, but then I suspected neither of those were on the itinerary for the remainder of the day.

“That was _hot_ ,” Friday whispered to me.

I’d be lying if I pretended I hadn’t noticed the temperature had risen a few degrees, but the pleasant breeze blowing in through the still-open elevator doors was quickly taking care of it. “Thank you for not telling them I was here,” I said.

“Hey, no problem,” Friday replied, still cautiously quiet. “We sentient inorganics have to stick together.”

I didn’t like to point out that I was woven before the invention of pesticides and was therefore entirely organic, but she had been so accommodating I decided to keep that to myself.

“So, are you staying or going?” Friday asked of me.

“What about...?”

“Oh, those two are already in the bedroom, they’ll not mind you. Come on in. It’s nice to have some company.”

Not wanting to be rude, I moved out of the elevator and into the penthouse. The first thing that struck me was the view. Not the panoramic expanse of city skyline that shone in through the full height windows, but the shimmering convergence of energies that blossomed here at the top of the tower. It was beautiful; the air element was so close it was easy to forget I was inside a building; all I wanted to do was soar into it.

“Humans miss so much,” Friday said, almost sadly.

“Most humans,” I corrected. Stephen would no doubt have appreciated the view.

Turning my attention inwards, to the physical world around me, I began to investigate the suite. It didn’t have the rustic charm of the sanctum, but it was clearly designed for comfort. The couch was covered in the finest grained leather, dyed black and almost liquid in its softness. The chairs sat at angles either side of it were upholstered in sumptuous, thick gauged silk that just begged to be stroked.

“Tony has a designer in Osaka,” Friday explained, once again knowing my thoughts.

“I knew an obi from Osaka,” I replied nonchalantly.

Friday chuckled lightly. “Knew, or _knew_?”

I fluttered a little. We had, in fact, been quite close for a time. The last sorcerer I travelled with had eclectic fashion sense and often combined western and eastern influences in his outfits. In my distracted state, I realised I had floated closer to the closed door that led out of the main suite. As I did, a raised voice proclaimed itself from behind the wood.

“ _You learn that in medical school, too?”_

I hurried away from the door, the molecules of my material vibrating so fiercely I worried I might combust. Friday laughed.

“If you’re everywhere, are you in _there_?” I asked, to direct her continued amusement away from me.

Her chuckles choked off. “I mean... I could be?” she whispered, as though inducting me into a conspiracy. “Unless that’s... That’s weird, right? Totally weird. Right? Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

In among her babbling, something caught my attention. It was a...darkness, nestled away in a corner of the suite.

“What’s that?” I asked, interrupting her attempting to justify why she should just ‘check in on them’.

“What?” she said. I looked again in the direction of the darkness. “Oh that. It was a gift.”

I floated closer, for some reason unable to tear myself away from the swirling black. It seemed to draw me in, tendrils reach out to me and beckoning me closer. I couldn’t believe that Friday was seeing it as I was and remaining so flippant. “A gift from whom?”

“Victor von Doom,” she replied. “He sent it to the boss just after him and Captain America...”

If Friday continued to talk, I was no longer hearing her. The object was close enough that I could see what it was: a small, rough thrown vase with glyphs I didn’t recognise pressed directly into the clay. The darkness that surrounded it was not of this world, emanating from somewhere beyond the dimensions as I knew them. Wherever this object originated, it was cold; sucking heat and life into its icy maw. But there was something enticing about it too; irresistible. Without thinking, I reached out the corner of my hem and lightly brushed the pocked surface.

“...not sure you should be touching that.” Friday’s voice came back to me in a rush.

A bright light rippled out from the vase, followed by a wailing vortex of...something that enveloped me. It wasn’t energy. If anything, it was the opposite; a total void of anything. Yet somehow I felt consciousness behind it, some kind of life.

“Uh-oh,” Friday said, although this uh-oh was more immediately explicable than her earlier one.

Emerging from the darkness was a long, sinuous tentacle, much like the suckered skin of an Earth octopus, but huge. Even the tip was as thick as a full bolt of fabric and it squirmed its way from the depths and straight towards me.

The door to Tony’s bedroom flew open. He bolted out, clad only in a pair of jockey shorts, taking in the tableau before him astonishingly quickly.

Stephen was fast behind, bounding past Tony and into the main space, fingers already held in the casting position. He was in a state of undress but, unlike Tony, was wearing traditional magician’s underwear: to wit, none. “What the hell is going on?” he barked.

Tony transferred his attention to me. “What is _that_ doing here?”

Stephen followed his outstretched finger, scowling. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Their mutual indignation didn’t get any further however, as the owner of the tentacle began to emerge into our world.

“Uh-oh,” Tony observed. I saw where Friday got her eloquence.

“It’s a beyonderling,” Stephen grunted. “Tony, why do you have a portal to the dark dimension in your penthouse?”

“I.. don’t?” Tony offered. “Normally. Your stupid cape must’ve done something.”

Stephen didn’t even bother to correct Tony’s misnomer. I supposed I could forgive him in the circumstances. “I’ll fix it,” he said, inscribing a spell of closure in the air. The spell, however, fizzled and died before it could take.

“Performance issues, sweetheart?” Tony quipped. “Allow me.” He held out his arm, a cocky smile on his lips, and waited. After a second or two he shook his wrist, stretched his arm out even further, muscles undulating with the hyperextension, and tried again. Nothing happened. “Huh,” he said. “That almost never happens.”

Stephen turned on me. “What did you do?” he demanded.

Before I could even attempt to explain, Friday spoke in my stead. “She was just looking ‘round, Doc. All she did was get a bit close to that creepy vase Doctor Doom gave the boss and _foom_.”

While the last thing we needed was for there to actually be a dragon in Tony’s tower, I appreciated her defence of me.

“Doom?” Stephen asked. “As in Victor Von?”

“Uh, yeah,” Tony replied, ducking out of the way of a flailing tentacle.

“Why do you have a vase from Victor Von Doom in your penthouse!?”

Despite the calamity, and his near-nakedness, Tony took the time to look sheepish. “He sent it when Steve broke it off with me, along with this little note that said ‘for when the time comes’.”

I wasn’t sure who groaned first, me or Stephen.

“What? Tony squeaked, hurling a small plinth at the vortex. “I figured it was his weird way of asking me out. Not that I was going to say yes, but...”

“So why did you keep the vase?” Stephen yelled over the roar of other-dimensional winds. He had circled to the other side of the room now, closer to me than Tony, in order to get a better view of the portal.

“Because I thought it was neat?” Tony offered, this time opting to throw a bar stool into the depths. “And I had an empty shelf.”

It was definitely Stephen who groaned aloud.

Tony shot him a black look. “What’s any of that got to do our fisherman’s friend here, and your magic and my tech failing simultaneously.”

“Doctor Doom is both a powerful mage and a technological genius. Obviously, he designed the vase to trigger in the presence of both, shattering the dimensional barriers.”

“Obviously,” Tony drawled. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he will have known that if you were single there was a good chance you and I might meet...”

“And that’s a problem for him because...”

“We used to date,” Stephen said flatly, darting in under the swipe of a limb to collect one of the shards of pottery. Tony’s spluttering came over the howl of the void. “In college!” Stephen defended. “For about two weeks!”

“Holy shit,” squawked Tony, jumping over a sweep of tentacle. “I thought he was hung up on Sue Storm?”

“He’s good at multi-tasking,” Stephen said. “Always was.”

Just then, the elevator pinged open and a large, fair-haired man dressed in what appeared to be a skin-tight flag charged in.

Tony turned to him, relief evident in every lean muscle of his bare body. “Steve!” he called.

“Tony,” Steve replied, his voice filled with the easy confidence of command. “I heard noises. Why are you in your briefs?”

Not ‘why is there a transdimensional monster attempting to claw its way into our universe?’. No. ‘Why are you in your briefs?’. Then I remembered what Tony had said, about a Steve breaking up with him. Twinned with the expression of admiration on Tony’s face, I realised this one and that must be one and the same.

Steve pulled his eyes away from Tony and surveyed the scene. That’s when he saw Stephen. Pink suffused his pale cheeks and his lips pursed. “Ah, I see.”

There was something in his tone I didn’t like. Judgemental. I dodged my way to Stephen’s side before wrapping myself around his shoulders. He tugged me closed, with a little muttered ‘thank-you’.

Tony sighed lightly. “Stephen Strange, this is Steve Rogers. We used to date. Steve Rogers, this is Stephen Strange. We _are_ dating. His magic and my tech are both on the fritz. Now everyone’s up to speed, I’ll take ideas on how to deal with this situation.”

I saw Stephen open his third eye and turn it on the shard of pottery he had captured. “I need some time to figure out how to close the portal. Distract the creature.”

“How, Doctor?” Steve asked, voice still infuriatingly calm.

“Hit it,” Stephen suggested.

“Steve’s forte!” Tony barked. Without warning, a spinning metal disc skimmed past his face, close enough that it may well have trimmed his beard. It continued along its path towards the beyonderling, but the monster managed to flail its limbs so the projectile failed to hit it. Instead, it struck the corner of the wall at such a precise angle that it returned along its flight path - again to no avail - and was caught by Steve.

Tony threw another bar-stool into the vortex. It crashed against the half-revealed body of the beyonderling, sending it reeling back a little way.

“Lucky shot,” Steve grumbled, jumping in and swinging a fist at the beast.

“Hey, not everyone can be a natural-born tosser,” Tony replied.

Thankfully, Stephen didn’t appear to be listening to their knowing, if edged, banter. Instead, he was examining the pottery in exquisite detail. As he brushed his fingers across the fractured surface, the glyphs glowed.

“Smart bastard,” he commented softly.

“Yes dear?” Tony commented.

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Not you, Tony. Doom. He rigged this so that it would only respond to magic and technology coming together simultaneously.”

“Hooray for metaphors,” Tony observed dryly.

Steve leapt from the ruins of Tony’s chair to kick the beyonderling in one saucer-y eye. “So you two need to work in unison to shut this thing down.”

Tony shook his head. “Tried that. Doom’s hit me with some kind of EMP, and Stephen with a...”

“Magical dampening field,” Stephen supplied. “I can’t project my energies.”

“I’m guessing that’s not good,” Steve huffed.

As Stephen returned to his studies, Steve and Tony went back to their battle, at first working separately, then joining up into a team to turn the beast back. They moved together so smoothly, I couldn’t help but watch them. After a few moments however, I felt Stephen tugging at my hem. I turned my attention back to him, quirking my collar to see what he wanted. But he wasn’t looking to me, he was looking _at_ me, fingers pulling at my weave so the fibres stretched and separated.

“My cloak!” he gasped.

“Shouldn’t even be here,” Tony shot back. “I told you, no capes in the tower except in potentially world-ending emergencies.”

A chair crashed as the beyonderling, growing wise, threw it back in our direction. Stephen ducked, but didn’t cower. “This _is_ a possibly world ending emergency!” he cried.

“You didn’t know that was going to happen when you got here.”

“And I didn’t bring it with me then either. But it’s here now, and I think I can use it.”

“It’s right here, you know,” I heard Friday grumble. “You shouldn’t talk as if it isn’t in the room,”

Stephen huffed at the reprimand. “Tony, if your computer is still back-chatting us, can I assume she’s shielded against EMP?”

“Friday? Sure,” Tony said, throwing Steve’s shield back to him. “Her core is hooked up to the Arc reactor so she has to be.”

“Great. So, could she focus a blast directly from the reactor?”

“Of course. But where?”

“My _cloak_.”

“What,” I thought.

“What!” Friday exclaimed.

Stephen was pulling me from his shoulders, dropping to his knees, gathering and folding me together in his lap. He laid his palms flat on me, pressing me between them and his thighs. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. At the last second, I realised what he was going to do. With a forceful yank he ripped a not inconsiderable tear into my fabric.

A second vortex formed in the room, one made of pure and brilliant light that came from within the rent Stephen had formed. Immediately, the beyonderling ceased its attack, drawn to the radiance. It came straight for me, at first tentatively probing at the tear. The sensation might have been unpleasant, had I not been filled with the glorious, shining energy Stephen was channelling through me. Even as the monstrosity crept inside me, my shape didn’t change; it was as though the monstrosity simply ceased to exist past the fraying fringe Stephen had pulled in my physical form. What we were doing was not an easy thing; allowing ourselves to become one. There was sweat peppering Stephen’s brow as he poured his energy into me, a bead of which rolled and dripped from the end of his nose to be wicked away by my weave. At last, the whole beast disappeared into the energy-filled place beyond our dimension with a soft, squelching pop.

“Okay, now that is a thing,” Steve observed, shield held as loosely as his jaw.

Stephen spoke through gritted teeth. “Do it now, Tony,” he said.

“But...”

“Do it _now_!”

I saw Tony hesitate and then nod. “Hit it, Friday.”

A great rumble emanated from below, the tower shaking as it built. Suddenly, a column of light burned through the floor and struck Stephen and me square on. There was pain, but I knew it wasn’t my own. Stephen was shielding me from it, using the last dregs of his power to stretch his protective ward to encompass us both. He was holding us together by force of will alone.

As quickly as it began, the energy beam cut out. Stephen let me go and I stayed where I fell, heaped on the floor. He lolled to the side, collapsing to the smoking ground.

“Ow,” he panted.

Tony was at his side in a second, lifting his head tenderly and wiping sweat and soot from his brow.

“You stupid, reckless asshole,” Tony scolded fondly.

Behind him, Steve chuckled. “How’s it feel to be the one _saying_ that?”

Tony ignored him. “What did you do?” he asked of Stephen.

“And you call yourself a genius,” the smouldering sorcerer groaned, rolling towards me and tugging me into his lap.

“Other people call me a genius,” Tony huffed.

“You do call yourself a genius quite a bit boss,” Friday commented. From the corner of my eye I saw Steve nodding.

Stephen’s hands travelled over me, smoothing me out. He lifted me and peered through the rift in my material. “Pocket universe,” he said, simply.

“And you used the energy from the Arc reactor to seal it.”

“An extension of Armaan’s theorem,” Stephen agreed.

“That’s pretty smart,” said Tony with a soft smile. “And I’m a genius.”

Stephen allowed Tony to help him to his feet, at last remembering he was naked. Plucking me from the floor, he wrapped himself in me, and I tightened around him in a grateful embrace. Tony curled his arms around us both.

“I’m sorry about your floor,” Stephen said, leaning into Tony’s chest and staring at the hole blasted through the concrete and marble.

Tony shrugged. “It happens more often than you’d think. I’ll just throw a rug down until the engineers can patch it up.”

Steve coughed lightly. “I’ll, uh, leave you two to what you were doing,” he said.

“Three,” Friday offered quietly.

“Friday!” Tony scolded. “I swear the internet has a lot to answer for.”

“Yes, yes it does,” Stephen agreed.

Steve offered one last nod of his head and got in to the lift, leaving us to the devastated room. After a few moments of peace, Stephen spoke up.

“So we’re dating?” he asked.

Tony swayed us as he shuffled his feet. “...yes? I mean, if you want. Because my life is weird and kind of complicated.”

Stephen laughed. Even with our intimacy, living and fighting together, it was a sound I rarely heard. “Think about who you’re talking to.”

“Hmm, fair point,” Tony said. He finally let go of Stephen and myself. “So...” he drawled. “Fancy grabbing a shower while Friday flies my tailor in from Milan to fix your friend up?”

Maybe Tony wasn’t such a bad guy after all.


End file.
